


So Having You

by linaerys



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-20
Updated: 2008-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:57:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linaerys/pseuds/linaerys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen finds some company for the night.  This is an Owen character piece, and not as much of a PWP as the NC-17 rating might imply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Having You

His eyes are more Tosh’s than Ianto’s, almond shaped and wide, but his lips are perfect, that same pursed rosebud that Ianto makes at Owen when he’s displeased or at Jack when he’s pleased. Same set of his mouth; it’s the eyes that tell the whole tale.

This one likes Owen, though, a marked difference from Ianto. He responds to Owen’s quirked eyebrow like he’s been sitting there all night waiting for Owen to arrive. Owen runs a discreet scan to make sure this one’s human. No need to go flying into a million particles of dust over a cheap fuck.

“I’m Rick,” he says. Rick swivels on his stool, legs spread.

“Owen.” He tips his chin up in greeting and takes a pull from his pint.

Rick has Jack’s cleft chin. If Owen looks too long, he’ll see nothing but familiar faces in Rick’s. He wishes he could blame that on some alien trickery, remembering, fleetingly, the echoes of emotions, more real than fact, but this one is all in his head and in his dick.

All of them at Torchwood suffer the same malady more or less, but Owen doesn’t have much energy to waste thinking on other people’s problems. He could have had Gwen tonight—perhaps; it’s been a while since he tried—but he wants this one, wants red lips parting over his cock, giving him the sweet oblivion of orgasm for a few seconds in the bathroom, before he goes back to wiping alien guts off his hands, and wishing he had it in him to be _nicer_ , to smooth over rough edges instead rubbing them raw.

They’re all on edge since Jack came back, trailing John behind him like a venereal disease. There was too much of all of them in John: Jack’s bitches dragged through time and space. It’s clear as day John’s long, comet’s orbit will drag him back into Jack’s sphere again.

Owen’s not going to be one of them. He’ll throw himself into the rift before he lets Jack do that to him.

Rick looks at him expectantly, but not too worried. “I don’t have time to waste,” says Owen, though he has all night, a bare and empty flat full of lonely hours waiting for him, a bed with sheets that once smelled of _her_ now gone stale.

“Then let’s get to it, shall we?” Rick leans his head toward the door and his body follows it elegantly. Owen tries not to let it remind him of anyone else.

Out on the street Owen slams him up against the rough stone wall of the building. Owen can always lose himself in this, mouth on mouth, breathing someone else’s air, giving sensation his undivided attention. Rick’s hands paint patterns of warmth under the slick black of his jacket. It’s a bruising, biting kiss; it’s kissing a Ianto who’s losing control for once, it’s Gwen fighting him for control of herself, as if that’s something Owen can give back to her.

“Well, fuck me,” says Rick when they break. “You want it bad.” He’s breathing as hard as Owen, hand fisted in Owen’s shirt.

“This is nothing. You should have seen me last week.”

Rick’s lips curve—finally someone appreciates Owen’s humor—and he ducks back in to suck at Owen’s again, not gentle, but more teasing this time. “Your place or mine?” he asks.

Harder to toss a bloke out than to leave, Owen thinks, but his flat is surely better than stumbling over take away containers in a stranger’s, and the view is usually good for another go, even if the first one isn’t all it could be.

Rick slams Owen up against the door once they’re inside, without even bothering to remark on Owen’s view. “How do you want it?” Rick asks. His eyes widen and a hint of uncertainty makes him Ianto again, asking, God yes, asking Owen for direction for once instead of just smirking and looking to Jack or Gwen for the final word.

Owen pulls Rick’s hips to his and kisses him again. Kiss, what a dumb word for this, for bodies pressed together, Rick’s cock hard against his, flesh pliable under Owen’s hands.

Owen’s fantasized about fucking Ianto, about making those rosebud lips open for a moan instead of a tart reply. Ianto wants it; he loves it; he hates Owen for making him want it. The better fantasy, though, is Ianto inside him, less impersonal than the bullet Ianto put in his shoulder and never apologized for. Being wanted like the needy fuck he is. Just like the rest of them.

Rick’s got his shirt off now. Russet hair stands stark against his pale, narrow chest. He’s almost as skinny as Owen, but softer; the slight padding of youth still masking trim muscle. Some day he’ll go to fat or stripped-down, comfortless whipcord—like cuddling with a board, Gwen said—but for now his body tantalizing and touchable.

“Fuck me,” says Owen. “I think I want it worse.” A ragged note breaks through the practiced dryness of his voice, and Rick’s eyes go glassy.

“Yes, you want it,” he says against Owen’s throat, syllables of command, heated and meaningless.

Rick seems to know he needs it hard and fast, or Owen’s chanting under his breath, his chorus of hissed yeses tells the story for him. Rick fingers him open, lightly-lubed enough that Owen has to breathe deep to let him in, and he doesn’t give Owen long to relax into it before he pushes inside, chest warm against Owen’s back, hands over his.

He shouldn’t be able to think like this, not with a cock in his ass, panting through a bruised mouth. He doesn’t want the pictures in his head: Jack and Ianto fucking face to face like lovers, Gwen having him because she can’t have Jack, and Tosh, poor Tosh, so fucking desperate for someone to love her, to tell her it’s okay, but so scared to ask for it.

If he touches Tosh he’ll break her. Better this instead.

Rick senses something’s wrong and slows to a stop. He curves his fingers around Owen’s dick, and pushes Owen’s hips forward with his own so Owen has to thrust into his hand. The pictures fade, and it’s just flesh on flesh again, Rick stretching him out.

“Fuck yes,” he gasps as he pushes back against Rick. Owen’s good at this, losing himself in his body, in sensations, for a little while. This he can do.


End file.
